


Two Kinds of People

by ubicaritas (Janet)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 04:06:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janet/pseuds/ubicaritas
Summary: A collection of vignettes in which Bodie and Doyle ...contrast.  A response to Obbo 340 - Contrast, on Tea and Swiss Roll.





	Two Kinds of People

**One**

“You know, you’re doing that wrong.”

When silence continued to reign from the other side of the room, Bodie tried again. “Oi, mate, I said, you’re doing that wrong.”

“What do you mean, I’m doing it wrong?” Doyle put down the boot and cloth he was holding and looked at his partner. “Just how is it possible to be wrong about putting shoe polish on a boot?”

“It’s in the wrong order.” At the incredulous look aimed his way Bodie continued his explanation. “Seriously, there’s an acceptable order to the boot-polishing process. And you, my son, are out of order.”

“Cloth, polish, boot… that’s the only order I need.”

The silence stretched as Bodie took in his partner’s blithe pronouncement. “Cloth. Polish. Outside panel. Inside panel. Heel. Toe,” he finally managed to say. “Then repeat with the other boot. I can’t believe that you, of all people, care so little for proper procedure, _constable_.”

Doyle picked up the boot again and attacked the final spot left unpolished – the heel. And he ignored the strangled snort of dismay when he started on the other one… at the toe. “So, what’s the big deal with the order?” he said, working steadily at the rest of the leather footwear in his hand. “ ‘s not like I’m handling the already-polished bits, or anything.”

Bodie shook his head. “That’s not it. Let me ask you, what’s the most important part of that boot? The thing that really matters when you’re on parade with your squaddies, for an inspection by your CO?”

“Erm, I suppose I’d say the toe.” Doyle hazarded a guess, willing to humour his partner if only to get out from under his all-judging gaze. “Although I’m not exactly…”

“Right, the toe!” Bodie raised a brow and Doyle’s words of protest faded. “It’s the one part of your boot that shows when you’re standing at attention on the parade square. So it has to be absolutely perfect: like a little mirror, its shine is. You should be able to count your teeth in it!” He picked up Doyle’s first boot and another polishing cloth from the table. “You have to approach the toe in the proper frame of mind, with your cloth prepared…”

It was Doyle’s turn to scoff inelegantly. “You’re full of it, _sergeant_. Too much sniffing the fumes from your polish, I reckon.”

“And as such…” Bodie continued as if the interruption hadn’t happened, swirling the cloth in rapid, tiny circles on the toe of Doyle’s boot, bringing it to a gleaming finish. “When you get to the toe, keeping in mind it’s the smoothest part of your boot, it’s also the easiest to get a really good shine.” He paused dramatically. “It’s your reward, innit, for having slogged through the rest of the boot. Saving the best for last.”

Doyle gazed at his partner. “You’re a nutter,” he said, then looked at the boot toe he was working on and compared it to Bodie’s effort. “Here,” he added. “Since you’ve got the one looking that good, least you could make the other match.”

“There’s two kinds of people in this world,” Bodie said, as he reached out and took the boot from Doyle’s hands. “Those who polish their toe first, and those who do it last.” He shook his head, a tragic look crossing his face as he contemplated his partner’s expression of disbelief. “I pity you, mate, really I do. But now at least I know where you stand…”

**Two**

_Just look at the pair of them, clustering around Betty’s desk, not giving the poor woman a moment’s peace. Although, if anyone can handle these two, it’s surely Betty. The years she’s spent as my secretary and protector of my inner sanctum have given her a skill set that is quite unique in my organization._

_But I digress…_

_They scramble in quick enough: each of them has spent years responding to a commanding officer’s summons, in one way or another. It’s not long, however, before the differences start to emerge. Quite a show these two lads put on, especially when they don’t quite know what’s coming their way._

_Master Bodie, at an easy parade rest… totally unconscious of it, but that’s what years of service for Her Majesty will do for a man… give him an ingrained sense of decorum no matter what his inner turmoil might be._

_And Doyle, well, there’s nothing easy about him… decorum is not a word easily applied to the other half of my Bisto Kids. Even when standing still, which he doesn’t do very often, he manages to convey a sense of motion and agitation, displayed for all to see in facial expressions that even his own kindly mother might have trouble appreciating._

_They are quite the contrasting pair, aren’t they? Och, there’s two kinds of people in this world, the calm and the excitable, and I’ve got prime examples of both standing in front of me right now._

_Oh, and I hope they like their new assignment…_

**Three**

There was bedlam in the rest room.

On a Saturday afternoon, it was unusual to find most of the squad at headquarters, but a couple of major operations had come to a close, and the agents were either trying to write their reports, or milling around waiting to be debriefed by their controller, the indefatigable George Cowley. As mid-afternoon approached, thoughts naturally turned to tea and biscuits, so the person closest to the kettle obligingly filled it to the brim and plugged it in. Another pair of helping hands pulled the milk from the tiny refrigerator and swept up the sugar bowl and a handful of spoons, placing it all on the table.

Doyle was first in line to make his tea, grabbing a couple of mugs from the drainer and tossing a tea bag into each, awaiting the arrival of boiling water from what he regarded as the interminably slow kettle. At last, water acquired and the welcome fragrance of steeping tea beginning to fill the air, he made his way to the table and sat down opposite Bodie.

“Tea’s made, mate,” he said, shoving one of the mugs in his partner’s direction. “Want me to fix it for you?”

A distracted Bodie nodded; deep in the final paragraphs of his report, he knew that Ray would make his cuppa just the way he liked it.

And that’s when things began to go astray.

Bodie glanced up to watch Ray splash some milk into the mug, followed by a carefully-rounded spoonful of sugar which cascaded elegantly into the steaming tea. He smiled… all was well in the world. But then Ray dropped the teaspoon into the mug and began to stir, slowly at first, then gathering speed; the little vortex in the centre promised lovely, evenly distributed additions to the fragrant brew.

“STOP. NOW!”

In the sudden silence in the rest room, a pin dropping would have been deafening. Pens ceased their scribbles, bodies froze in mid-motion at the sudden roar from agent 3-7. Only Doyle kept moving, raising an eyebrow at his partner as he let go of the spoon, gently leaving it sitting in the still-spinning tea, before lowering his hand to rest on the table.

“Christ, Doyle, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bodie rose in a sinuously smooth motion, to loom menacingly over his seated partner. “All this time… I can’t believe I’ve never noticed it before… do you always do it this way?”

Ray pondered the mug for an instant, then looked up at Bodie, eyes widening in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, mate,” he said.

“The tea, Doyle, the bloody mug of tea. Do you always stir it that way?”

“You mean, like this?” Ray picked up the spoon again and gave the tea a couple of quick swirls.

“YES! STOP!” Bodie reached across the table, only stopping himself at the last second from grabbing Ray’s hand. He straightened, closed his eyes, and took a long, deep breath, then settled back down into his chair. “Please, Ray, just stop.”

“All right, look, no more stirring.” Ray pushed the mug across the table towards his partner, who proceeded to eye it as if it were a goblet of poison. “Care to explain what this is all about?”

“Yes, do tell, Bodie.” Normal movement had resumed in the room, and Murphy reached over Bodie’s shoulder to grab the milk and pour a generous amount into his own mug of tea. He picked up a spoon and began to stir, only to back away in concern at the expression on Bodie’s face.

“Christ, not you too.” Bodie looked frantically around the room, watching as several more of his fellow agents were in various stages of preparing their tea. “Bloody heathens. Go on, Murphy, over to that side of the table, with Doyle. Where you belong. You too, McCabe.” His eyes lit upon Stuart, lounging in the corner of the room, mug and spoon in hand, well away from the crowd. “Oi, Stuart… over here, mate, beside me where it’s safe.”

One by one, the occupants of the room moved to one side of the table or the other, as directed by a stern and determined Bodie. In the midst of the activity swirling around him Doyle continued to sit, mystified, although by the time it was done, he had prepared and stirred his own tea, and was sipping it thoughtfully as he watched the great division. The split was about even, with half the agents gathered around him, and the other half clustered behind Bodie on the other side of the table. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bodie said, ignoring the laughter that rolled around the room at his words; as it happened, neither of the A-squad’s two female agents were in the rest room at that moment. “Fellow agents, and barbarians on the other side of the table…”

“Oi!”

“What’s that?”

“What in bloody hell… ruddy barbarians!”

The group broke out into a rabble of sound, and Bodie held up his hand to quiet them.

“There’s two kinds of people in this world, you know.” Bodie glared across the table at Doyle and his compatriots, before bestowing a much milder glance at those tucked in around him. All were listening with rapt attention now. “There’s the good, upright citizens who stir their tea in a _proper_ , clockwise manner,” he emphasized the word, “and then there’s the heathens, the barbarians, such as yourselves,” his arm swept in a broad gesture at the other side, “who defy all laws of nature and _unstir_ their tea, anticlockwise.” He paused for effect, before adding, “And now you know which side you’re on. Take heed, before it’s too late!”

For a second time, there was silence in the rest room. And then all hell broke loose, with bursts of disbelieving laughter giving way to chatter and even, eventually, the raised voices of genuine disagreement between the forces on each side of the table.

Under all the chaos, Doyle sat in gobsmacked silence, watching as Bodie leaned back in his chair and smugly acknowledged the affirmative comments aimed in his direction, and deflected the negative barbs thrown his way with equal aplomb. He sipped his own tea, long since prepared and stirred, or rather, unstirred, according to the man across the table from him.

“You, mate,” he finally managed to say, “are a complete, absolute nutter. Fully certifiable, at that.”

Bodie shook his head. “Raymond, my son, you should be glad we’ve discovered this… tendency… of yours. Of all yours,” he added, giving another quick wave around the room. “Honestly, in good conscience, how can you lot work for Her Majesty while doing something so completely, so utterly … _un-British_?”

Ray opened his mouth to respond, but was stopped by the crash of the rest room door against the wall.

“What the devil is going on in here?” George Cowley stood in the open doorway, brogue in full force as he repeated his question to the room full of suddenly quiet agents. “I expect an answer, gentlemen,” he said, casting his gaze through the room before alighting on the two figures at the centre of it all. “Bodie, Doyle, do you have anything to say for yourselves?”

Murphy and Stuart together, with a wary glance at both their boss and Bodie, stepped into the breech. “Join us for tea, sir?” Stuart said, handing Cowley a mug, and Murphy moved forward with milk, sugar, and a spoon in his hands. A dozen agents leaned forward; a dozen pairs of eyes watched with an almost desperate eagerness to know on which side of the great debate their Controller would fall.

“Why, thank you, Stuart.” Cowley accepted the steaming mug from Stuart, taking an elegant sniff of the fragrant brew. “And no, Murphy, I’ll pass… I take my tea clear, thank you.”

**_End_ **


End file.
